by Beth Ciotta
Jack beat three eggs, then poured them into a heated skillet, his mind veering to another complicated doe-eyed female. Kylie McGraw. Her goofy smile and fiery spirit. Her red panties and lush lips.
That freaking birthday kiss.
Too bad I didn’t feel anything.
It’s not like he’d put any effort into it. Still. He’d felt something and she hadn’t. Then again, she’d passed out seconds later. Maybe she’d been too trashed to feel anything. His ego demanded a second shot. Logic said, let it go. The only thing worse than a mutual attraction would be acting on it. This was Kylie. Sweet and responsible. Except when she’s trashed. She was the marrying kind and he was the kind who wrecked marriages.
Shy barked.
“A recipe for disaster, huh?”
Another bark.
“Right.”
Jack fed the mutt a half a can of beef kibble, then loaded up his own plate with an omelet and toast. He ate standing up at the counter. Sipped coffee. Flipped through Law and Order magazine and contemplated his first official day as chief of police.
He wondered if Kylie would go through with her threat to shake things up or if she’d lose her nerve when she gained her sobriety. He had better things to do than reading her the riot act for disturbing the peace. Like organizing his new office and finding a home for Shy. There were also security issues pertaining to the upcoming Apple Festival.
One thing he wouldn’t be doing was investigating a gang shooting or a mafia hit. Those two factions didn’t exist in Eden. Hell, there hadn’t been a murder of any kind in this town for several decades. No atrocities. No risk that he’d experience that damned numbness that made him wonder what he’d become. No self-disgust binge drinking.
Who needed a shrink, he thought as he topped off his coffee. He had Eden.
A SLICE OF DRY TOAST, one banana, two cups of strong black tea and a hot shower later, Kylie felt rejuvenated enough to attempt gusto. Wanting to shake up her routine straight away, she raided her closet in search of anything bold. She passed over conservative ensembles and settled on a flared black skirt and a fitted black T-shirt featuring a sequined green-and-red dragon breathing sparkly gold fire. Bypassing a dozen pairs of sensible shoes, she snagged the flower-power combat boots she’d ordered and never worn. Whimsical and daring. “The new me.”
Feeding off nervous energy, she skipped morning meditation, although she did chant affirmations as she applied mascara and lip balm and tamed her thick hair into her signature ponytail. “I will act out of the ordinary in order to attract and promote change. Change is exciting. Change is good.”
She repeated that three times while staring at her reflection in the mirror, although her mind trailed off to the un-extraordinary. She considered her pale freckled cheeks, her juvenile ponytail, her poor vision. Maybe she should experiment with cosmetics and a stylish haircut. Investing in laser surgery seemed extreme, but she could definitely afford new glasses. Her body benefited from years of yoga, but typically she hid her toned form beneath loose clothing, choosing timeless classics over here-today-gone-tomorrow trends. She’d never fussed over style, choosing instead to focus on inner beauty. Thing was, men were visual creatures, stimulated by what they could see and touch.
She knew Jack’s type and she wasn’t it. That explained his lack of enthusiasm when she’d leaned in for a kiss. Plus, she’d been drunk and vulnerable, and wouldn’t that be so Jack—a gentlemen even when you ached to be ravished.
Been there. Lived through the embarrassment. Twice now.
She sighed and turned away from the mirror. There were other ways to shake up her life aside from burning up the sheets with Jack Reynolds. Not that she was tempted to do so. She was, thank goodness, over him. No, she was going to concentrate on her daring decision to renovate McGraw’s Shoe Store.
Sporting a devilish grin, she called Faye while tugging on a pair of thick green socks.
Her friend picked up after the second ring. Despising telemarketers, Faye always screened her calls. “You’re alive.”
“Rough around the edges, but a lesson learned. What about Sting?”
“Rough around the edges, but a lesson learned.”
Kylie frowned at Faye’s gruff tone. “What about Spice? Did she survive her first slumber party without getting her undies frozen?” Spice was Faye’s thirteen-year-old daughter. As quirky as her mom, but not as outgoing. Her first slumber party—the kid wasn’t exactly Miss Popular—had been a very big deal. Maybe it had been a disaster.
“She had a blast.”
Kylie waited for details. None came. She squirmed as the silence stretched. What the heck? “Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
Kylie pursed her lips and racked her fuzzy brain. “Because I made a spectacle of myself?”
Faye grunted. “Do you even remember last night?”
“Most of it. Okay. Parts of it.”
Another long stretch of silence.
Kylie bristled. So, she’d had too much to drink. So, she’d gotten a little loud, given away her shoes and taken a spill in Boone’s. It wasn’t like Faye to be so easily embarrassed. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Jack?” Kylie blurted, because normally that’s exactly what her friend would do. Faye knew all about Kylie’s longtime infatuation, although she didn’t know about the never-to-be-mentioned-ever episode. “He gave me a birthday kiss. Actually, I stole a kiss. He just sort of sat there. Disappointing.”
“You expected Jack to take advantage of you?”
“I expected fireworks.”
“You always expect fireworks,” Faye said. “And you’re always disappointed.”
“Yes, but this was Jack. It’s supposed to be different with him.”
“It’s supposed to be different with someone who sets your soul on fire. I thought you were over Jack.”
“I am.”
“Are you sure about that? For someone who’s having a hard time remembering parts of last night, you have a damn clear recollection of that kiss.”
“You are mad at me.” Kylie padded to her medicine cabinet and nabbed a bottle of aspirin. Between the hangover and Faye’s snippy mood, she felt queasy. To make matters worse, Stan shouted something in the background and Faye shouted back. Okay. So maybe she’d just caught her friend at a bad time. “Are you guys fighting about Sting and the ice cream fiasco?”
“Not exactly.” Faye blew out a breath and lowered her voice. “Just do me a favor, Kylie. Don’t drink any more cosmopolitans.”
“Trust me, it’s not on the agenda.” Stomach rolling, Kylie popped an antacid along with the aspirin.
“So what instigated that birthday meltdown, anyway?”
A change of subject and a softer tone. Sort of. She’d take it. “Spenser.”
“Let me guess,” Faye said. “He extended his shooting tour. Which means you have to postpone your trip. Again.”
So far Kylie had missed out on two opportunities to travel the Orient. Both times due to a family crisis. The latter had wiped out her bank account. Now, after years of living frugally and saving (again), she finally (almost) had enough money to fund her dream trip. Problem was, Spenser’s change of plans put a glitch in her plans. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
Faye snorted. “Maybe you should tell Spenser why you need him to come home and to take responsibility for the business he inherited.”
“I don’t want to step on his dream. Into the Wild is a huge hit. He’s in his fifth season and the ratings are consistently high.”
“What about your dream?”
Kylie faltered. Her gut said she needed to attack the here and now. The real world. Her world. “If I went to Asia now,” she said sensibly, “I’d still have to deal with my dull existence when I got back.”
“Meaning?”
Kylie shoved on her glasses, glanced at the shoe-order confirmation and the paint samples she’d printed off the Internet. She smiled. “Meet me at the hardware store in two hours.
”
CHAPTER FIVE
JACK STEERED HIS SUV into the chief of police’s designated parking space. He glanced at the black-and-white parked to his left—one of two department cruisers. Chief Curtis had used his own wheels. Jack opted to do the same. Small towns have small budgets. Police vehicles were costly. Better to allocate funds to staffing, programming and equipment. Besides, driving an unmarked vehicle suited his purpose as did his semicasual uniform.
He cut the engine, looked at Shy over the metal rims of his polarized Oakleys. Instead of the backseat where he’d put her, she now sat on the passenger seat. Slobber streaked the partially open window. Short blond hairs coated his black dashboard. His new car didn’t look so new anymore. Didn’t smell new, either. Was there such a thing as dog Beano?
“So is this because of the canned kibble?” Jack asked, waving off the noxious odor. “Or because you’re nervous?”
Shy barked.
“Uh-huh.”
Maybe a trip to the vet was in order. Not that he planned on keeping her. But as long as Shy was in his care, he didn’t want her stinking up his air.
“Okay. Listen up. The squad’s still mourning Curtis. They’re not sold on me. I have no idea how they feel about dogs.”
Shy angled her head, whimpered.
“Relax. I’m not locking you in the car for eight hours. Just…behave. No chewing. No peeing. No farting.”
Her tail wagged.
“You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”
She barked again.
“Right.” He climbed out and jerked a thumb. “Let’s roll.”
Shy leaped to the sidewalk. He half expected, half hoped she’d run. Run home. Run off. Anything to relieve him of this newfound responsibility.
She sat by his side.
Great.
New job. New life. New, and unwanted, complication.
In an effort to root himself, he scanned Main Street and assessed the area. No skyscrapers. No public transportation. No street vendors or homeless beggers. Just a scenic grid of two-story buildings, antique street lamps, and meter-free curbside parking.
Eden, Indiana.
Smalltown, U.S.A.
Four eateries: Pizza King, The Box Car, Boone’s Bar and Grill and Kerri’s Confections.
One grocery store. One hardware store. One barbershop, beauty salon, car dealership, car wash, Realtor, dollar store, library, shoe store and pharmacy/sundry. One convenience store—Circle K. One department store—Kmart. Two churches—both Protestant. Two gas stations and one bank. Two dentists. Two doctors. Two lawyers—one of those being his brother-in-law, Frank Cortez, or as Jack called him: the Cheating Bastard.
Jack shook off the thought of the man who made him see red. His numbness did not extend to TCB. He breathed in the crisp autumn air and a heady dose of Americana.
Considering where he’d spent the past several years, he felt as if he’d traveled back in time. Kylie was right. Eden hadn’t changed in decades. The storefronts looked exactly as they had when he’d been a kid. J.J.’s place still had a soda fountain. A red-and-white-striped barber pole spun outside Keystone’s and the Bixley still showed feature films at bargain prices.
Unlike Kylie, he found comfort in the familiar. Especially when the familiar included old-fashioned values. His CSI cynicism could use a dose of Leave It to Beaver innocence. Dog at his side, he strode toward the station house, soaking in the sunshine and breathing smog-free air.
To think he’d blown out of paradise the day after he’d graduated high school. He’d been hungry for purpose and action. Jessie had accused him of having superhero syndrome. She’d said it like it was a bad thing.
Turned out, she was right.
As soon as she stopped giving him the cold shoulder, he’d concede and give her a chance to say I told you so. At least it would mean they were talking.
He shoved aside thoughts of his sister. She wasn’t the only one’s favor he needed to gain. He needed to earn the respect of his new unit. A skeletal crew divided among three shifts for twenty-four-hour coverage. His second in command, Deputy Ed Ziffel, worked 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. Officer Andy Anderson covered the 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. The night shift belonged to Officer Bo Hooper. Dorothy Vine, their administrative assistant, pulled nine to five. Jack would float, working longer hours and where needed. He’d get to know the unit, but it would take time.
Prepared for the morning shift, Jack entered the station house along with the perky-eared, stink-ass dog.
Ed Ziffel sat at a dinged metal desk immersed in a book while devouring a powdery pastry. Ziffel had graduated high school two years behind Jack. They’d never been friends, but they weren’t enemies, either. After an hour in the man’s company yesterday, Jack knew why the town council hadn’t promoted from within. Some men are born to lead. Some…aren’t.
Jack cleared his throat.
Ziffel jerked his nose out of the book and brushed crumbs from his dark blue tie. He noted Jack’s attire. “Chief Curtis dressed in the official EPD uniform,” he said by way of a greeting.
“I know.” Part of the reason Jack had deviated. Dark blue Dutymax cargo pants and black LITESpeed running boots. He wore a white T-shirt under his tan polo shirt and a lightweight nylon blue jacket with Police embroidered on the right. His gold badge was clipped to his belt. His .40 caliber semiautomatic Glock was holstered at his hip. His headgear of choice—a blue ball cap—was embroidered with stark white letters: EPD.
His goal was to appear official yet approachable. According to the mayor, the former police chief had fallen out of touch with the populace. Burned out? Maybe. Probably. Christ. The man had been on the job thirty-five years. Shit happens.
Jack knew shit. He also knew people. He was an expert at reading personalities. An expert at blending. He could converse and connect with butchers, bakers and cold-blooded killers. His goal to bond with the citizens of Eden was both professional and personal.
“Guess you’re more comfortable in plainclothes seeing as you were a detective.”
Jack didn’t argue. He didn’t want to speak ill of Ben Curtis. He didn’t feel obliged to explain his clothes, though not official EPD attire, were in fact regulation. He took off his Oakleys, slid them into his inner jacket pocket. “Any activity I should know about?”
“Hooper got a call from dispatch at 2:31 a.m. Mrs. Carmichael reporting a possible break-in. Or vandalism. She swore someone was skulking around her house.”
The E911 Dispatch Center also dispatched calls to the Eden fire department, ambulance service, and to the animal control officer. Jack wondered how they kept up. Then again, this was Eden. They probably got four calls a day, total. “And?”
“Hooper drove out even though he knew he wouldn’t find any threat.”
Jack raised a brow.
“We get calls from the old woman at least once a week.”
“Regardless, Hooper investigated.”
“Bo Hooper’s a good man.”
“Didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
Ziffel pursed his lips, nodded.
Jack bypassed his office—a disorganized nightmare—and drifted toward a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Shy slinked along. “So what did Hooper find?”
Focused on a manila file, Ziffel grunted. “A tree branch scraping against her upstairs pane.”
“I remember Sally Carmichael,” Jack said as he filled a blue ceramic mug to the brim. “Sunday school teacher.”
“Retired now.”
“Married forever.”
“Until Harry died.”
“Now she’s widowed, alone. Skittish.”
“Starved for attention,” Ziffel added.
“Lonely.”
The man nodded. “That’s our take. Especially at night.”
“Anything else?”
“This town doesn’t see much action.” Ziffel cast a subtle line. “At least not the kind you’re used to.”
Jack didn’t take the bait. He sipped coffe
e.
Ziffel didn’t take the hint. He fished deeper. “Folks are speculating on why a gung-ho cop like you would ditch New York City—maybe the most exciting city in the whole U.S. of A.—for hum-drum Eden.”
In other words, he was the subject of town gossip. He wasn’t surprised. He did, however, want to douse speculation. “I burned out on big crime.”
“Oh.” Ziffel looked disappointed by the straightforward answer. No drama. No scandal. No dancing around the subject. “Burnout is common in high-stress, high-risk professions,” he said. “So instead of melting down, you transferred out of a toxic environment into a wholesome community. Smart.”
Jack saluted the man with his mug. “No place like home.”
Shy whimpered.
The deputy peered over his desk. He noted the mutt leaning against Jack’s leg, frowned. “You brought your dog to work?”
“She’s a stray. I’m her caretaker. Temporary.” Jack gestured from canine to deputy. “Shy, Ziffel. Ziffel, Shy.”
“You named her?”
“Had to call her something.”
Ziffel, a rail-thin man with a face only his mother—and wife—could love, drained his mug, then joined Jack for a refill. “Should’ve stuck with ‘Dog.’ Once you give an animal a name, you’ve made it personal.”
Jack didn’t comment. Ziffel was a pain-in-the-ass know-it-all, but he didn’t care that he hadn’t been promoted, and according to the town council, he was a conscientious lawman. Jack needed a reliable deputy, a man who knew Eden and its citizens like the back of his hand. A man the squad already respected. Ziffel fit the bill.
Jack refilled their mugs.
Shy sat and leaned into Jack’s leg.
“She thinks she’s your dog,” Ziffel said, stirring two packets of sugar into his coffee.
“She’s anxious.”
“You mean attached.”
Jack sipped. “Hazelnut?”
